


now that i can see your face (i can stand up to anything.)

by cordiallysent



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Scooby Doo Where Are You! (TV 1969)
Genre: Everyone is Bi and Everyone is Poly, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Teens are in love and it is the 60s, and Mysteries are Abound, the supernatural is real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-06-15 04:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordiallysent/pseuds/cordiallysent
Summary: Coolsville, Ohio. 1969.Four teenagers are accidentally involved in a fight on the school bus. At the same time, someone opens a Door.-This is a story about love, and a story about monsters, and a story about mystery.It is also a story about Scooby-Doo.





	1. strangers in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> what is UP party peeps!!! welcome to what is essentially going to be a re-telling and expansion of the 2009 movie 'scooby doo! the mystery begins'. it's set in 1969 since that's the year the first cartoon began. we are definitely going to end up with some anachronisms but it's aight. this fic features a lot of headcanons and what-ifs i've sort of rambled about kinda incoherently on my tumblr. i'm about to try and sort them out into a story. also, it's me, so it's going to be largely... a love story. a POLY love story.
> 
> the fic title is from the song at the end of the mystery begins. it's called 'i can be scared with you.' its adorable.
> 
> okay! here we go.

October, 1969. Just outside of Coolsville, Ohio.

 

\---

 

Guy Blanc considers himself more of a cat person. He’s got a British Shorthair at home, a grumpy little grey thing that likes to wake him up by crawling on his face. She’s quiet, and suits him just perfectly.

 

He’s not sure how to handle the dog currently crammed into the back of his van. It’s a Great Dane and he should have expected _big_ from the name, but it is still _lot_ bigger than he was anticipating, and it’s barking up a storm - a storm to rival the _actual_ storm they’re driving in. He doesn't think the dog’s going to _get_ all the way to it’s new owner in Colorado, what with the way it’s pawing and thumping at the van’s doors. It’s not even as if Guy’s being _paid_ all that well for this job. If he _was_ , maybe he’d have been able to get a cage or something. A muzzle for the thing’s jaws, at the very least.

 

The dog hurls itself forward, head hitting the wire mesh barrier between it and Guy. Guy flinches, and the van jerks on the road.

 

“Now, now, watch it, pooch…” Guy says uneasily, hurrying to get control of the vehicle again. The dog barks, loud and agitated. _What was the darn beast's name again?_

 

“C’mon, Bobby.” The dog barks again, as though offended. Guy winces. “Billy?” _Bark, bark_. Guy snaps his fingers. “Bert! Bertie! That’s right, ain't it!?”

 

The dog gives a quieter, muted _woof._ Guy figures that’s a _yes_.

 

“That's right, that's right. Bertie. Well, Bertie, it’s still a ways to go. So for the sake of my nerves, I’m gonna need ya ta quit with all that barkin’ and bumpin’ back there.”

 

Bertie growls, and Guy is put decidedly _not_ at ease. Jaw clenched, he turns his attention back to the road, peering through the rain and the darkness. It’s nothing but empty dirt-road and low-hanging tree branches, and he can't quite tell if the rumbling he’s hearing is thunder or the dog he’s driving.

 

He’s less unsure when a flash of lightning strikes and a catastrophic chain reaction occurs.

 

The lightning cracks and makes violent impact with a tree just ahead, severing a large, thick branch from the trunk. Guy’s van’s still pushing along, and unfortunately ends up directly below the branch just as it falls. And it’s big enough to be called a log -- when it drops, it crushes the entire front portion of the vehicle, the hood crumpling like a paper bag crushed underfoot. The sudden damage sends the van careening out of control, spinning and sliding ‘til the side of it slams into another very large tree.

 

That’s when it stops moving. And, buckled and beat-up as it is, the van’s back’s split open. That gives the dog just the space it needs to squeeze through and squeeze out, squeeze to freedom.

 

In the front, Guy groans, shaken but miraculously unhurt, and kicks the driver’s side door open, tumbling out onto the grass by the roadside. It takes him a second to collect himself, check himself over and get his bearings, before he remembers the dog.

 

 _The_ _dog_. He hurries to check the back, but when he forces the back doors open all the way, Bertie is nowhere to be found.

 

 _Great_ , he thinks. _No way I’m getting paid now._

 

\--

 

Rogers’ Good Eats is a little diner on Griffin Street, overlooking the park and about half an hour's walk from the local high school. It’s owned and operated by Wasima Rogers, neé Kasem, a lebanese immigrant and a chef you’d swear was a little bit magic. For the past twenty-three years she’s lived in the apartment above and served authentic, home-made cuisine to both family and neighbours. It’s a steady business, if not particularly lucrative. She has her constant stream of regulars; and she’s happy, getting by just fine. She is a vibrant and funny woman, though just a little sad - it’s coming up on five years ago now, but the death of her husband still colours everything she does.

 

On a late Wednesday evening, she’s cleaning up after a hard day’s work. At her side is her teenage son and part-time after-school employee, drying the dishes she washes and singing along with her to Sinatra’s _Strangers in The Night_ , the mother-son pair’s voices warbling out loud enough to drown out the radio.

 

“--ever since that night, we’ve been together…” Wasima passes over a plate, and her son takes it from her, twirling around the cramped kitchen space and wiggling his hips as he improvises a dance to the tune.

 

(His name is Norville, so named for the little Massachusetts community from which she’d once received a postcard from a cousin. Her first little bit of America and that great _American Dream_ , she’d held fast to Norville even after she chose Ohio to make her home in. And as she and her husband had looked around their little above-restaurant apartment at eight-months-eight-days pregnant, the postcard had caught her eye and just like that, a name was chosen.

 

“Norville, really?” Her husband had said. “Why not something dignified, like _Kemal_?”

 

“ _You_ were the one who insisted we change to an _American_ sounding last name, Mister _Roshed_ . Anyway, I’m not naming him after _you_. How will he know which Kemal I’m yelling at? No, no. He’s going to be Norville.”

 

And he was _Norville Kemal Rogers_ \- because Kemal _insisted_ on his son being _Kemal Junior_ in some capacity - and he remained Norville right up until he started growing hair, upon which his father had settled on a fitting nickname.)

 

“...lovers at first sight, in love forever,” Norville of the present continues singing, as he dries the plate he’s handed and slots it back into its place in the cupboard.

 

“It turned out so right--” sings Wasima, shaking drops of water out of one last glass.

 

“--for strangers in the night!” Norville kicks it up a key, throwing all his passion into a wooden spoon he grabs as microphone. Wasima laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

 

“Oh, and then we have to do the next part,” she says. “The scooby-dooby-doo part, that comes at the end.”

 

“Is that like, really how it goes, Ma?” Norville asks, tilting his ear toward the radio. “I don’t think he says _scooby_ , I think it’s just _dooby-dooby-doo_.”

 

“I _like_ scooby,” she retorts. “Your father always sang it ‘scooby’.”

 

Norville’s teasing expression melts away. “Aw, well if Pa sang it scooby, then it’s _gotta_ be scooby.”

 

He takes the cup from her hands, slides it into its cupboard home for the night, and then grabs his mothers hand, twirling her around in an approximation of a waltz. They twirl and dodge countertops, singing _scooby-dooby-doo_ long after the song on the radio fades out. When Norville finally releases his mother’s hands, her eyes are crinkled with joy, shining maybe just a little with tears. Norville’s polite enough not to say anything.

 

“Oh, that made me miss him just a little bit less,” Wasima says, fondly. Then; “I’m going to bed. Take the trash out and lock up, will you? I’ll see you upstairs before I turn in.”

 

Norville nods. “Sure thing, ma.”

 

Wasima retires upstairs and Noville spins on his heel, taking in the kitchen, eyes scanning for things to sweep into his trash bag before he tosses it into the dumpster out back. He drains his half-finished can of orange soda, drops that in, and clicks the radio off as he heads out the back door. The alleyway out there is half-lit by people’s windows, but it’s only a few familiar strides to the dumpster. Norville’s got _strangers in the night_ firmly stuck in his head, and sings the scooby-dooby part right the way up to the big trash receptacle, extending the _doos_ as he lifts the lid of the bin. The trash bag is tossed up and then falls down, plopping neatly into the metal container; and Norville is just about to let the lid fall when he hears a sound.

 

A canine sort of wuffling and snuffling, coming from the other side of the dumpster.

 

All scooby-dooing ceases as he balls up his fists, ready for a fight-or-flight moment. (Realistically, he knows if it’s some of kind of rabid stray, he’s going to be all flight and no fight, but it’s good to keep up appearances, even if there’s not actually anyone around.) Keeping low, and ready for anything, he sidesteps once, twice, three times to the left and then pops out around the corner, confronted by--

 

\--a dog. So, pretty much what he was expecting. It doesn’t look feral, but he keeps his fists raised all the same. Fighting stance. Looking tough. He steps forward and the dog cowers. Norville feels terrible immediately, and lowers his hands.

 

He doesn’t know the breed, but it is big. Big, and sort of a light brown, and _skinny_ , he’s not sure if it’s one of those kinds that just _looks_ like that, but the way it’s pawing around in the trash for scraps has him figure it’s probably hungry.

 

Some authoritative voice in his head says _hey, don’t feed that thing, it could have fleas_ . And he thinks - what’s fleas got to do with me feeding it? The voice _hmms_ and _ahhs_ about it for a second, and Norville decides then and there that he may as well just feed it, what’s the harm? It’s just a dog, and a hungry one, and nobody likes going hungry. Norville really thinks no-one _should_ . Even if they’re dogs. So he holds up a ‘ _stay right there, dog’_ hand and hurries back into the kitchen, grabbing the plate of leftovers he had been planning on taking to school tomorrow in a tupperware. There’s some rice, a little chicken, and some peas in there, and he’s _pretty_ sure he’s read that that’s okay for dogs.

 

Hurrying back outside, and still humming _strangers in the night_ under his breath, he almost trips over the dog, who, clearly not one for obeying simple _stay_ hand gestures, has decided to come over and investigate.

 

“Hey!” Norville says, indignant, as he steadies himself but several rice grains take a flying leap off the plate anyway. They fall onto the dog, who shakes them off, but its tail keeps wagging, and its eyes stay on the plate. Norville shrugs, and places the plate on the ground. It barely scrapes concrete before the dog sticks its snout right into the pile of leftovers, tongue lapping over everything - _including_ Norville’s fingers.

 

“Watch it, watch it,” he says, hurrying to get his hands out the way. The dog pays him no mind, it’s got dinner to eat. Norville can respect that, but he’s responsible for the plate, so he figures he may as well take a seat right there on the back-alley porch and wait it out. It doesn’t take long - it’s a big dog, and Norville had it right, it _was_ hungry. It polishes off the plate in almost no time at all and then looks up at Norville with big, expectant eyes once it’s finished. Norville grimaces.

 

“Sorry buddy,” he says, picking the plate back up. “That was kinda all we had left.”

 

The dog whines, and pushes its head into Norville’s hands. He sighs and pats its head, guilt coiling in his stomach. Guess this is why they always say not to feed strays -- and it must be a stray, what with it not having a collar or tags or anything. It’ll probably keep coming back now, and he can’t take care of this thing, there’s no room. No way he could do that to his _mom_ , at least, considering how much food Norville _himself_ goes through.

 

“Aw, but Sugie would love you,” he says, out loud. “Her last birthday she asked for a puppy.” The dog pushes its snout up a little more, its big eyes looking so sad and pleading. Norville has to force himself to look away, keeping his chin firmly up. “But you’re no puppy, dog. You’re _huge_. I’m sorry,” he says, hauling himself to his feet. Much as it pains him to do, he gently pushes the dog’s head out of his hands and backs back up into the kitchen, shutting the screen door on the dog. “Like, the kitchen’s closed.”

 

The dog looks plaintively up at him through the wire mesh, and Norville screws up his face, grimacing as he shuts the other door, and shuts the dog firmly out.

 

\---

 

Upstairs, Wasima’s trying to get her daughter away from the television. Still more than a little behind the times, the Rogers family only has a black-and-white set, but that’s not turning little Margaret Toufie Rogers away from the late-evening reruns of Top Cat that she’s been absorbed in for the past few hours. Wasima tries bribing Margaret away for her bath with the promise of candy before she has to go to bed, but the kid’s too busy watching that wily T.C. fool poor Officer Dibble for the millionth time to even _think_ about candy.

 

Norville makes it up the stairs to the apartment, wiping the last leftover grease from his hands onto his pants, and gets exactly one moment to relax before he’s called over.

 

“Norville!” Wasima hollers, now attempting to pull Margaret away from the television in a more literal manner. “Get over here and help me get your sister to bed.”

 

“No!” Margaret shouts. “Top Cat! Top Cat!” She looks to Norville, her little eyes narrowed, a you-better-be-on-my-side look. “Shaggy! Tell Mom I can watch Top Cat.”

 

Wasima rolls her eyes and lets go, effectively tagging herself out, and her son in. Norville drops to his knees and whispers _don’t worry, I’ll get her to bed before nine-thirty_ as Wasima walks past, and she gives him a grateful smile, ruffling his hair before heading to her room.

 

“Sugie,” he says, very seriously. He goes for the nickname, which means he’s being the _cool_ family member.

 

“Shaggy,” she replies, equally seriously. By her word, he’s in full _Shaggy_ mode now, big brother with the goofy nickname. She uses it very _specifically_ , a come-down-to-my-level tactic.

 

(That’s okay. Norville’s always kind of preferred to be Shaggy anyway.)

 

“How long have you been watchin’ cartoons today, lil stinker? Like, I’m guessing since, _uh_ , the second you got home, maybe?” He folds his arms, eyebrows raised to maximum height. His sister folds her arms too.

 

“What about it? You and Mom banned me from the kitchen.”

 

Shaggy frowns exaggeratedly. “You can't pull that, Suges, last time we tried you out helping in the restaurant you broke two plates.”

 

Sugie scowls, and Shaggy just laughs.

 

“I was practising my _circus skills_ ,” Sugie says, still pouting.

 

“ _Oh_ right, yeah, because you're gonna like, run away and join the circus, aren't’cha?” (This is something that’s been going on for the past three months.)

 

Sugie nods. “But I can't ‘til I get _better_ at my circus skills.” (She’s got tightrope aspirations, but understands that she needs to work her way up.)

 

“I see.” Shaggy’s hand starts to feel around on the carpet, maintaining all-important eye contact as he blindly searches for the remote with which he can switch off the TV. His fingers just about make purchase, but Sugie catches him out, snatching it away with her little hands and sticking out her tongue.

 

Shaggy snaps his fingers. “Darn it, you foiled my plan.” He blows a pre-emptive raspberry at Sugie before she can even _think_ about blowing one herself, and then his eyes slide sideways, to the little cartoon cat now laying out a plan to his fellow alley-dwelling felines.

 

Next thing he knows, he’s almost entirely absorbed in the episode too. At some point he situates himself so he’s facing the screen, and Sugie climbs into his lap. Her dark, curly head makes a good chin-rest, and the sibling pair are utterly engrossed - until Shaggy’s eyes happen to catch on the clock on the wall, the big hand at a quarter past, the little hand just creeping past nine. It takes him a second to process, and then he jumps into action, scooping his little sister up with the one arm and punching the television’s off button with the other. Sugie squirms and protests, but the credits _had_ already begun rolling, and Shaggy figures that’s as good a point as any to implement ‘put small child to bed now’ action.

 

He deposits her in the bathroom, and holds up his wrist, tapping the face of his watch. “You got ten minutes to get yourself ready for bed. _Ten minutes,_ okay?”

 

Sugie grumbles but nods, shutting the door on her older brother. Shaggy waits ‘til he hears the sound of the faucet running, then steps away from the bathroom door, wandering over to the far window and just happening to look outside. And when he peers down into the alleyway behind the building, the big dog is nowhere to be found. He’s shocked to find he feels a mixture of relief and disappointment. He hadn’t been expecting to feel a mixture at all.

 

With a shrug, he crosses the room and reaches for his backpack. There’s homework to do before he can go to bed, which he can at least get a start on before he says goodnight to Sugie, and then when all that's done, it’s an early morning for school tomorrow.

 

\---

 

Just a little ways across town, someone is somewhere they shouldn't be.

 

Coolsville cemetery is open to the public during daylight hours, but the gates are closed after 8PM. Its oldest memorials sit closest to the centre, the newer graves growing outward. Flowers on headstones are abundant around the edges, fewer and fewer dot the forgotten as you walk further in. The heart of the burial site is filled with faded epitaphs and names left unspoken for centuries, but tonight someone from long ago goes unforgotten.

 

A solitary figure in the eye of what’s soon to be a paranormal storm. A match strikes a rough surface and a flame sparks to life. Candles light to illuminate a certain grave marker, wax scraping the ground and catching in the cracks as they’re set down.

 

Someone’s voice begins to chant.

 

Something deep below the ground starts awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we have it! here's just a little introduction to our central character, shaggy, who we all know and love. 'sugie' is his canon sister from the cartoon 'a pup named scooby doo'. shaggy's original voice actor, casey casem's real name was 'kemal amin kasem' - that's where i got inspiration for shaggy and his parent's names. and the fact that shaggy's a big brother is important to this fic.
> 
> chapter title from the song 'strangers in the night' by frank sinatra.
> 
> i am politelyintheknow/politelyscribblingaway on tumblr. feel free to msg me there, or check out my art (especially that for this fic!)


	2. all these places have their moments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whew! long time no update, but i finally managed to knock out a chapter. this one's a little shorter. there's just a smattering of the source material here (i.e. the scooby doo movie 'the mystery begins' that i'm using the basic plot of for my re-relling vehicle) and some hints at the current standing all the characters have with each other. and so, we get back in!

Sugie’s elementary school bus leaves ten minutes before the high school bus, and though he leaves for school before the restaurant opens, nevertheless, Shaggy spends a good portion of his morning helping his mother get ready anyway. There’s always ingredients to be prepped and set aside, and there’s always salt shakers to refill and a napkin dispenser to stuff napkins into on his way out. This morning it’s the same as always, until about five minutes to bus arrival when he hears his mother calling for him to dump out a packet of spoiled meat. He hurries back into the restaurant's kitchen to make good on that, grabbing the smelly package from his mother’s hands before slipping out the back door. He’s had _Strangers in the Night_ stuck in his head since last night, and he finds himself still half-singing, half-mumbling the lyrics as he once again pops open the dumpster out back and prepares to toss the trash in. One _scooby-dooby-doo_ later the rotten parcel drops in amongst the rest of the garbage with a squish, and Shaggy allows the metal lid of the dumpster to drop, the loud clang of it reverberating through the alleyway.

 

A short, loud bark reverberates too.

 

“Oh, like, hey!” Shaggy says, as the big dog from last night jumps up at him eagerly. It paws at his chest, trying to lick at his face and he grimaces as it does, pushing it back down as gently-but-firmly as he can.

 

“Yeah, hey again, buddy,” he says, quickly wiping his hands of any gross meat-juice on his pants before petting the dog’s head. “Guess I was right, you _are_ just gonna keep coming back arent’cha? Well, I’m sorry,” he sighs, “but I gotta get to school. If you’re still here when I get back, _ehhh_ …” he stands up straight, scratching the scruff on his chin in thought. “Maybe I’ll see if I notice any missing pet posters around today.”

 

The dog tilts its head like it doesn’t quite understand, and Shaggy gives it one last considering look before turning around and heading for his bus stop. He manages about two and a half steps before he realises the dog’s still at his heels, and he turns around, grimacing.

 

“Aw, like, come on, dog. I gotta go to school. You can’t come with me.” He points back toward the alleyway, and then turns on the heel of his worn-out sneakers and tries to be on his way again. The dog follows.

 

They do the stop-point-turn-follow routine four more times until Shaggy’s made it all the way to his bus stop, and almost all of the way to his wit’s end. The dog finally stops as he does, its head bumping into the backs of his knees before it looks plaintively up at him, whining. Shaggy drags his hands down his face, and leans down to it, even as he can start to hear the school bus rumbling down the road.

 

“Man, I learned my lesson. I’m not feeding strays ever again. And it was was nice to meet you, and, like, if my ma wasn’t so hard up, it’d be so groovy to have a dog. But… we just _can’t_ , dog. You understand?”

 

The dog continues to stare. Shaggy sighs, his hands on his knees. Beside him, the bus grinds to a halt. “Yeah. Anyway. Bus is here.  And I gotta be on it! And you, _you_ definitely don’t. So…” The doors swish open, and the dog’s eyes follow as Shaggy straightens up. “...stay. Put. There. Or… I don’t know, go like, have fun at the dog park or something.” He nods seriously, then points two fingers at his own eyes, turning his hand to point them at the dog as he steps onto the bus. “Bye, dog.”

 

The dog gives him sad, species-specific eyes as the cloudy glass of the bus windows close on it, and it keeps up the mournful look even as the bus starts to rumble its way down the street to its next stop. Shaggy starts to make his stumbling way down the bus’ centre aisle, watching the dog  as far as he can, until he suddenly finds his feet knocked out from underneath him, and all six-foot-something of him goes sprawling across the bus floor, his chin making sharp impact, courtesy of the extended leg he’d been tripped up on.

 

From somewhere above him, loud, unkind laughter rings in his ears.

 

“Have a nice _trip_ , Rogers?” That’s Flash Granger, the quarterback. He sneers as Shaggy picks himself up.

 

“Huh, yeah, uh… sure did,” Shaggy says, keeping his head down. “Just like yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that…”

 

Flash snorts, elbowing one of his jock buddies next to him, a real _did-ya-see-what-I-did_ look on his face. The guy next to him rolls his eyes.

 

“Grow up, man,” he says, but when Shaggy tries to catch his eye, the guy just looks away. Fred Jones; Shaggy only knows him by name and position on the football team. Running back. Currently; not-looking-back. Flash just glares at Fred, and, attention off himself, Shaggy takes the opportunity to keep moving.

 

Morning routine with the jocks over and done with, Shaggy makes for his usual seat. On the bus - it’s next to this girl called Velma. Every junior at school knows her surface level info, because she was skipped ahead a grade in middle school and joined the rest of her Coolsville High classmates as a sophomore. She’s the president of the academic decathlon after just one year of being part of it, and her backpack has a little white cat face with a bow on its ear.

 

Slightly less common knowledge about Velma Dinkley, academic decathlon president, is that she has a little gap between her two front teeth, and that her big, big glasses sit just a little crookedly on her face. She doesn’t talk much outside of class but when she does she has a high, shaky voice, and she covers her face with her hands when she laughs. A lot of her clothes are hand-me-downs from her mother, and she once came into _Rogers’ Good Eats_ and ordered falafel just because she needed to use the restroom.

 

Today, as usual, she scoots over a little and gives Shaggy a sympathetic look as she watches him rub his chin. He drops his hand and smiles as he takes his seat next to her.

 

“Hey,” he says, placing his backpack between his knees. “How was your Wednesday night?”

 

“Uneventful,” says Velma, who doesn’t meet his eyes, (which is normal,) because she’s staring at his chin. (Less normal.) Shaggy assumes she’s just trying to figure out if it’ll bruise or not, but he’ll admit it’s making him feel more than a little self conscious, and it takes some willpower to focus back on what Velma’s actually saying. “Calculus and and Physics homework, and then me and my dad watched a wildlife documentary.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Shaggy says. “Was it like, one of those with the British guy talking?”

 

Velma nods. “How was _your_ Wednesday night?”

 

Shaggy shrugs. “Eh, it was okay. Kinda like, the same as always, you know? I helped out my mom at the restaurant and then did my homework and went to bed. Oh, but I _did_ meet a dog.”

 

Velma’s brows furrow, and she actually looks him in the eye. “You _met_ a dog?”

 

“Yeah, like, a stray or something. It was real big, came right up to the kitchen back door. I gave it some dinner.”

 

Velma’s face scrunches up into an expression of mild disgust. “You shouldn’t feed stray animals, Norville.”

 

“Aw,” says Shaggy, shrugging. “I don’t know. He was pretty cute, if you saw him, you probably wouldn’t have done any different.”

 

Velma studies his expression in silent, serious thought, nodding slowly before realising he’s staring back, and she hurriedly looks down at her backpack in her lap. Shaggy diverts the thread of the conversation from dogs to food, more specifically the food he’d bussed to each of the three tables in his mom’s diner the night before. And of course, what the customers had thought of the food. And then he recounts _their_ stories, because their lives, still fairly ordinary for the blue-collar workers of Coolsville, Ohio, are still far more exciting than Shaggy figures his life is ever gonna be. Velma’s gone quiet which is pretty much par for the course on their morning bus-ride conversations, but sometimes it’s nice just to have someone listen, and Shaggy just finishes recounting Mr. Kareem’s story about his grilled cheese with a face on it by the time the school bus pulls up outside Coolsville High.

 

“Sooooo,” Shaggy says, as the pair of seat buddies make their way off the bus and through the school’s entrance. “See you ‘round?”

 

During school hours, Velma’s got the decathlon team to hang out with, and they’ve made it clear that one Norville Rogers’ 2.2 GPA doesn't qualify him to sit at their lunch table. Which he doesn't exactly mind. He likes Velma, sure, but some of those other mathletes have this sneering way of addressing him that he’d rather not deal with. It’s only marginally less humiliating than the daily bus-jock encounter.

 

“See you around,” Velma echoes, giving Shaggy a little wave as they split up and head for their own lockers.

 

\---

 

Velma’s pretty sure Norville _will_ get a bruise this time, (not that it should be too visible through the whiskers on his chin.) He gets tripped up more often than not, but he’s usually able to catch himself. This morning he’d fallen right down, _hard_ , and a sort of bystander’s guilt grips at Velma’s guts as she thinks about it, distracted enough that she almost grabs her calc textbook instead of her biology one. She catches herself and grabs the calc, shaking her head as she pushes past the ethical conundrum about whether or not she should have spoken out against those jocks on the bus, or even said anything to Norville about it, like, perhaps, _hey, I’m sorry that happened to you for the thirty-sixth time in a row._

 

She doesn’t really know him too well outside of the bus. They don’t have any classes together bar gym, and he’s actually good at gym, so she and her academic decathlon crew rarely interact with him. But he smiles at her in the hallways, and of course shares with her the latest (largely uninteresting) gossip from _Rogers’ Good Eats_. And he’s pleasant to talk to; friendly without being overbearing, funny without being crude.

 

It’s a little sad to think that he might _actually_ be her best friend, and they only spend about fifteen minutes a day in each other’s company. Because though she likes her decathlon team well enough, they’re all about business. Outside of school, they couldn’t care less about her. She meets up with them for class, lets Gibby Norton handle all the hand-raising questions, and enjoys lunches mostly alone.

 

And, after morning classes are over, she’s about to do just that - enjoy her lunch period alone, (after a quick stop off at the library for a book exchange,) when something catches her eye.

 

Velma Dinkley would definitely call herself a fan of ghost stories. Always has been - growing up she delighted in native folk tales her mother would tell her about the spirits and _yokai_ that haunted the outskirts of Tokyo. She’d thrill to hear about the frightening _akateko_ and _f_ _utakuchi-onna_ , but had never been anything like a true _believer_ . To her they’re fiction, and she is, first and foremost, a young woman of fact. Science, Math - the tangible things that can be _proven_.

 

So when she sees what looks like the floating disfigured face of _Oiwa_ in the school library at lunch, in broad daylight, she assumes that she needs to go get her eyes checked again. Because, well, holy _hell_. The apparition turns its huge, ghastly head to her, winks it's one human eye, and then vanishes with a breeze that blows in through an open window. Velma’s jaw drops open, and, goldfishlike, she flounders about the spaces between nearby bookshelves, looking out for anyone else, any sign she hadn't been the only witness to the absurd and frankly terrifying apparition she'd just seen.

 

But of course, there’s no-one around. Typical. Hardly anyone ever goes to the library at lunch.

 

Velma takes a deep breath, and then another. And the one more, and attempts to rationalise. She had stayed up a half an hour later than usual last night, reading the tattered illicit romance novel she’d found at the second hand bookstore a week ago. Sir Featherblade had just professed his love for the fair Lady Camellia and she simply hadn't been able to put the book down without finishing the chapter. But as far as her (extensive) knowledge extends, half an hour’s less sleep doesn't typically bring on hallucinations, so she considers her morning routine. A regular breakfast of cereal, sans her usual apple because her sister Madelyn had eaten the last one. Maybe _that_ was it. Lack of apple. And she _had_ skipped lunch to do a little extra reading in the library.

 

She turns hastily on her heel, makes for the library’s exit, and digs in her backpack for her cling-wrapped sandwich. She stuffs a hasty mouthful past her lips, hoping it’s the cure for her peculiar vision. Chew, swallow, pause; and everything seems mostly okay.

 

She’s halfway down the hallway when she hears a scream.

 

\--

 

One Velma Dinkley has never done particularly well in track-and-field. (She _had_ done a considerable amount better at girls-only wrestling, but didn’t particularly love the violence of it and didn’t continue it beyond the first semester.) Nevertheless, she puts on an uncharacteristic burst of speed around the science corridor and dashes for the girl’s bathroom, following the sound of the scream. And as she rounds the corner, what appears to be a headless figure riding a glowing skeletal horse thunders down the hallway and dissipates into green smoke.

 

A moment later, she opens the bathroom door to find Daphne Blake. Everyone around _Coolsville_ knows or at least knows of the aspiring homecoming queen because her father made a fortune selling _Blake’s Bubble Bath_ , his own extra-foamy, extra-luxuriant, extra-fragranced bath soap that swept the country by storm. It spawned a financial empire, _and_ the biggest bath-and-body shop in town. It also helps that her mother is the famous Elizabeth Blake (nee Harper,) jazz-soul singer and fashion icon, the first black woman in their state to ever make it big - Daphne Blake couldn’t live out of the limelight even if she wanted to - not that she’d _ever_ want to live such a way, of course.

 

Right now, that very same Daphne Blake stands petrified in the middle of the girls bathroom, with the front of her dress and the ends of her very dyed hair wet. All the faucets in the sinks are running at full blast, the porcelain bowls already spilling out a flood of water across the floor.

 

Velma stares at the scene before her, only dimly aware of the feeling of her cling-wrapped sandwich slipping from her fingers and hitting the soaking-wet floor with a plasticy _thlip_.

 

“Did you just see--” Velma starts to say, but Daphne holds up a perfectly-manicured hand to silence her.

 

“Ah-ah-ah. No, no, no. You don’t ask me _did I just see a headless horseman on a skeleton horse_ _just come out of one of these mirrors and turn on all the faucets and then run right through the wall_ , okay? Because if you ask that, that means you think I’m crazy.”

 

“Um--” Velma starts to reply.

 

“And you _definitely_ don’t think I’m crazy, right?” Daphne cuts over her, taking a purposeful step forward. There’s a blazing quality to her eyes that makes Velma shrink back, eyes darting momentarily for the exit. Daphne’s expression narrows and Velma fears she’s about to face the full force of a rich-girl temper tantrum, when instead Daphne’s face crumples and she bursts into tears, suddenly rushing forward and throwing her arms around Velma’s shoulders.

 

“Oh _god_ , I knew it,” Daphne blubbers. “I’m totally nutso. I _knew_ I shouldn't have eaten that drive in burger last night! I _told_ Freddie that place was shady and now look at me!” She hiccups, squeezing Velma tightly - much more tightly than Velma expected she’d be _able_ to.

 

“ _Wait_ ,” she squeaks, “wh-what if I said I _did_ see it? The horseman?”

 

Daphne gasps, and suddenly releases Velma, pushing her back and holding her at arm’s length, her pretty, make-up smeared face serious.

 

“I’m sorry, did you just say you _saw it_?”

 

“Well, not all of it. I have to take your word for it about the mirror and the faucets but I _did_ see it in the hallway.”

 

Daphne’s eyes widen. “So… so like, what’s that _mean_?”

 

Velma hesitates, her finger lifting to slide her glasses back up her face. “I’m not sure. _But_ \--” she emphasises the _but_ , “--but I think we can find out. The two of us saw it, so neither of us could have just imagined it, right? Unless we were having some sort of shared hallucination, maybe the beginnings of an episode of mass hysteria?”

 

Daphne shakes Velma’s shoulders. “ _Mass hysteria?_ ”

 

“No, no!” Velma says, shrugging Daphne’s hands off. “Or at least I don’t think so, not yet! It-it-it’s all pending further study!”

 

Daphne flicks her hands, shaking her head, her gaze turning deadly. “Oh, no way. You wanna _study_ me?”

 

Velma shrinks back. “That’s- that’s not what I meant. What I mean is… we _both_ just witnessed something impossible. And I won’t rest easy until I can prove that it _wasn’t_ impossible. So what I mean is that _we_ should study this phenomenon, being that we’re the key witnesses.”

 

Daphne purses her lips, her gaze still sharp. Velma wonders how she can possibly still seem so intimidating with a soaking wet patch on her dress and mascara running down her face. Maybe it’s just the fact that Velma herself is barely five feet tall, and dumpy.

 

“Hm,” Daphne says, thoughtfully. Then, “No.” She sashays past Velma, flipping her wet hair over her shoulder. “Have fun _studying_ or whatever, I’m calling for a car home so I can change.”

 

Then, to complete the absurd picture, Daphne promptly flounces out of the bathroom as if nothing absolutely crazy had happened at all. Velma’s shoulders drop and she shakes her head, bewildered.

 

She steps forward and turns off the still-running faucets, her own plain reflection staring her in the face as she finishes up. She’s about to turn and leave, picking up her now soggy, ruined sandwich on her way when she suddenly catches sight of something in the reflection.

 

On the wall behind the mirrors are two words in sooty-black burned into the tile wall. As Velma turns and approaches it, her heart in her throat, she can see tiny wisps of acid-green still coming off the smouldering message.

 

 _WELCOME BACK_ , says the wall.

 

Velma gulps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we'll see more of daphne, and some of fred. 
> 
> the chapter title for this comes from the song 'in my life' by the beatles.
> 
> i am politelyintheknow/politelyscribblingaway on tumblr. feel free to msg me there, or check out my art (especially that for this fic!)


	3. so i said i might take a chance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> long time no update!!! this is a much shorter chapter than i usually like to make them, but it's a 'hurry the plot points along' type one, with more of an introduction to how i'll be portraying fred, and what motivates his behaviour. as a young mixed-race person, i'm putting my own mixed-race perspective on things, but this is set in a time just emerging out of being less accepting, so i will do my best to handle these themes sensitively.
> 
> otherwise, enjoy the beginnings of spooky (and romantic!) happenstances!

Fred Jones dyes his hair. It had been very blond when he was born, unusual for the son of a native Chippewa man, with hair raven-dark. But his mother’s hair is a light, light, near-white, which shone through the strongest - and now, at seventeen, Fred’s hair is, if unattended to, a dirty in-between shade. 

 

He’s the first native guy to play on Coolsville High’s football team, but few people actually know it. He doesn’t talk about his heritage, because nobody asks. He dyes his hair blond. He’d never, ever say he was ashamed of his heritage, but still; he blends in, because it’s easier to fit in with the other kids that way. Fred Jones never rocks the boat, and keeps his blond head down. If something happens he’s not happy with, he bites back his words and pretends it’s not happening. Better to stay out of it, when his football teammates do something that makes his insides churn with guilt.

 

Still it never cuts quite so awful, deep and terrible, as when he overhears his teammates make comments about his girlfriend. The guilt’s never as overwhelming as when she struts through the hallways past the leering members of the football team with her head held high, her eyeliner just so.  _ She’s pretty, but _ , they say, making jokes about a ‘nubian princess’. _ She’s pretty for a… _ and Fred can’t bear to listen. He does as he does often, and keeps his mouth shut.

 

(It’ll be 1970 in just a few months, but some of his teammates are uncomfortably stuck some ten, twenty,  _ thirty _ years back in their opinions. He worries. He thinks about his parents.)

 

Fred-and-Daphne haven’t told anyone at school yet, officially, that that’s what they are now. Most of the other football players date cheerleaders, in typical high school formula, and though she isn’t a member of the cheer squad, Daphne Blake certainly fits the bill, with her loud voice, bossy tendencies and general hair-flippyness. He asked her once, why she’s not on the cheer squad,  _ I mean, you’d be perfect, right? _ and her expression had turned sour, a clear history there he shouldn’t have brought up. The subject had been swiftly diverted to that of Fred getting a car for his birthday that coming weekend, and Daphne’s mood had brightened significantly at the prospect of getting to drive somewhere with her new sweetheart -  _ without _ any members of her family’s staff as unwanted chaperone.

 

She’d been less thrilled when she’d seen the vehicle -  _ a van, Freddie? Really? This is looks like the gardener’s! _ \- but Fred had been more than grateful for the discount Ford Econoline, and had stressed the idea that he could drive her  _ wherever _ she could want. She’d pursed her lips, said  _ hmm _ , said  _ maybe if we give it a makeover sometime. I’m thinking Flower Power _ .

 

It’s that same van he’s waiting by now, as Daphne’s official ride home on Thursdays, when he doesn’t have after school team practice. It had taken a serious and  _ highly _ official talk with both Daphne and her parents to assess his suitability to  _ be _ her ride home on top of being her boyfriend. (It had been touch and go for a minute, but he’d eventually been ruled trustworthy by Mrs Blake, with a wave of her hand, a billow of her sleeve. She’d gathered him in her arms and kissed both of his cheeks, her black, coily hair brushing past his ears. She’d pulled back and beamed at him, then looked fondly to her husband.  _ Yes, I trust him _ .)

 

He’s going to be deemed much less worthy of that trust if Daphne takes any longer to make an appearance, though. He’s been waiting in the school parking lot for about fifteen minutes after final bell, and she’s still yet to show up. It's about to hit minute sixteen when he finally sees her hurrying out of the school's main entrance, wearing what he’s sure a different dress than he'd seen her wearing that morning in English Lit.

 

“Hey,” he greets her as she goes up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “What kept you?”

 

Daphne grimaces. “I got caught by Mrs North in the hallway and she gave me a ten minute lecture on skirt lengths.  _ After _ the bell rang. It's like, excuse me, but this is  _ Saint Laurent _ , and it deserves to be seen by the people, so what if it doesn't go down to my knees? It's not eighteen-ten or whenever you were born anymore.”

 

Fred laughs. “Well, I think you look groovy.”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes, and tries to suppress a smile, playfully slapping his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Okay, okay, Mister Flattery. Shall we go? I don't want my dad to freak if we show up late.”

 

“Sure,” Fred says, running around to the van's passenger side to open the door for her. “I don't really want that either.”

 

Daphne accepts his hand up into the van before Fred shuts the door and dashes back over to the driver’s side, opting to roll over the hood and pointedly not noticing when Daphne covers her face with embarrassment. A moment later, the keys are in the ignition and they're pulling out of their parking spot, then away from school.

 

When they're on the road, Fred asks; “Hey, weren't you wearing green this morning?”

 

Daphne's hand smooths the front of her dress. It's pink-and-black, and he's right. She wasn't wearing it that morning, when he’d met her behind the tree outside of the school entrance and given her a good-luck-kiss before her psychology quiz.

 

“Oh, I-- I had to go home to change.” she says. “Some geek bumped into me at lunch, and I wasn't gonna walk around covered in sloppy-joe for the rest of the day.”

 

Fred hums. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He extends a hand, fiddling with the dashboard radio. “Hey, did you hear about them closing off the ground floor science block today? I passed by there and it was flooded.”

 

Daphne's breath hitches, and Fred gives her a worried, sidelong glance. 

 

“Woah, you okay?” He asks. Daphne’s expression looks troubled,  _ really _ troubled, her pretty features hard and pinched, he can just see it out of the corner of her eye. But Daphne only clears her throat and shakes her head.

 

“Oh, yeah. I was supposed to have Chem lab after lunch but they gave me study hall instead. I-- I didn't see what happened there though. Did…” she hesitates. “Did you?”

 

Fred shakes his head. “No, like I said. Just the flooded hallway, looked like it was coming from the girls’ bathrooms.”

 

Daphne doesn't say anything. Fred bites his lip. Now he feels like he should pull over, and ask what's wrong. There  _ has _ to be something wrong, for her to be so quiet. For her to sound so... _ scared _ , way more scared than she ought to be about a flooded hallway. Anyone would be happy to get out of Chem lab for an easy study hall swap-out.

 

He’s about to work up the nerve when a song comes on the radio and Daphne’s whole demeanour changes, suddenly throwing herself into the passionate act of singing along to  _ then he kissed me _ . Fred laughs as she attempts to dance in the passenger seat, and the voices of The Crystals carry them right the way to the road on which Blake Manor stands, tall and imposing and all new-money. And if Fred notices that Daphne’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, well. He does as he does always.

 

Daphne pops open the passenger’s side, and Fred slides out of the driver’s. They meet on the path, and he extends his hand to her. The stretch of paving leading to the Blakes’ front porch is one of those blissful almost-hallways where no-one whispers, no-one notices, and nothing really matters except how much they like each other, (and how many butterflies swirl up a storm in their stomachs.)

 

“Hey,” Fred says, as they come to a stop in front of the door. He looks into her eyes, holding both of her hands in his. She looks up at him, expectant, a hint of that patented Daphne Blake Bossyness in the quirk of her eyebrow that he likes so very much.

 

Fred swallows his neves. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes, but she squeezes his hands back. “Yeah, Freddie, I know.”

 

“Okay,” he says. “Just- just a reminder. You know?” Then he takes a deep breath. “I- I guess I’ll let you go now. See you in school tomorrow?”

 

“Sure,” Daphne says, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She lingers for a moment, then steps back. Something in her look still says  _ something's not quite right _ , but she only says; “see you tomorrow, Freddie.”

 

Then with a flip of her long, meticulously styled hair, she opens the door and disappears inside. Fred stands on her doorstop for a further minute, the weight of something not-said-aloud hanging in the cooling early evening air. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his letterman and turns back down the path.

 

\---

 

Velma gets a ride back home with her dad, who rolls through the usual list of after-school questions -  _ how were classes, what did they serve for lunch, did you get a lot of homework?  _ Velma answers without further prompt -  _ fine, I packed a sandwich today, the usual amount _ \- but her father’s mouth twists beneath his moustache, and when he speaks, he’s clearly concerned by the way she stares distractedly out the window, the way she responds in perfect monotone.

 

Dale Dinkley considers himself a perceptive father. He might not have his eldest daughter’s razor-sharp intellect, but he’s always been able to tell when she’s troubled. After all, he knows that Thursdays are calc days, and he knows that Velma  _ adores _ the beauty of calculus, especially in the morning - there hasn’t been a Thursday yet that she’s not been anything less than  _ bubbly _ about her variables.

 

“You okay, smart-cookie?” he asks. “You seem a little… I don’t know, like you’ve got somethin’ on your mind.”

 

Velma turns to him, shaking her head like she’s snapping out of a daze.

 

“Huh? Oh-- yeah. Totally fine, Dad, don’t worry about it. I think I’m just a little tired, I didn’t sleep all that well last night.”

 

Dale nods, but he can see how her shoulders sag just out of the corner of his eye. And he wants to ask again, of course he does, but then he remembers she’s a teenager. And it’s been many a year since  _ he _ was a teenager himself, but he knows that sometimes you just can’t push it. So instead he clicks on the radio and as some pop-number sung by a tight-harmony girl group blasts out of the tinny little dashboard speakers, and he sings along despite not knowing the words just to try and coax a smile out of his kid.

 

To his relief, Velma laughs, bemoaning his off-tempo caterwauling -  _ dad, please, oh my god, at least roll the windows up to save the public!  _ \- and if her face drops when they pull up to their driveway, Dale’s polite enough not to notice.

 

“I gotta speak to Mom,” Velma says hurriedly, as she gets out of the car. “See you at dinner.”

 

“You got it, smart cookie,” says Dale. “It's Mac and Cheese night.”

 

Velma hums and heads inside.

 

Dale does not notice something rush past on the wind behind him.

 

\---

 

Driving himself home involves a certain amount of backtracking that takes one Fred Jones past the high school on the way. He normally pays it no mind, simply thinking of it as a two-thirds marker for his journey, but in the growing dimness of dusk, Fred notices something rushing past on the wind in front of him. Something billowing, glowing green. Skeletal, wreathed in something gauzy and see-through. 

 

Something with piercing, truly dead eyes that stares  _ right _ at him.

 

More than a  _ lot _ distracted, Fred almost doesn't notice the tree that his van's headed for, and only just manages to swerve out of the way before impact, just barely clipping the bark with the front bumper. Self-preservation reflexes kick in and, once clear of local flora, he slams on the brakes and the van screeches to a halt, and all of Fred Jones collapses over the steering wheel, his eyes blown wide, his face drained of blood.

 

When he kicks open the car doors and tumbles out into the road, he sees nothing out of the ordinary at all, and his hammering heart slows its frantic rhythm and he's just about convinced himself that it had all been his imagination when  _ something _ stops him.

 

On a low-hanging branch of the same tree he'd almost collided with, he notices something caught there. Something thin, glowing green.

 

He plucks it from the sharp wood fingers of the branch, turns it over in his hands, a strange, floaty scrap that feels like almost nothing between his fingers.

 

“Huh,” he says, out loud, though no-one else is around. Even so, a chill runs up his spine, a cold feeling like he's being watched, as if any second he could turn around and catch someone just disappearing.

 

It feels like the start of something, something ominous, and maybe a little exciting. Maybe it's the boy scout in him, the avid mystery-novel reader that makes him do something uncharacteristic, to reach out and grab for what could be something _ thrilling _ instead of pretending it’s not there. That sudden heart-racing surge has him carefully pocket the tiny piece of strange fabric, hiding it safe in his letterman before hurrying back to the Econoline.

 

\--

 

At that same time, one Norville Rogers; known to his sister and the greengrocer down the road as on Shaggy Rogers, is walking up to  _ Rogers’ Good Eats _ when he hears a loud, deep, frantic barking, and before he can think, the huge dog from that morning, and from the night before, comes barrelling down the road, its eyes wide and terrified. Shaggy has no time to think, and instead of stepping aside, he simply allows himself to be bowled over.

 

“Ouch! What do you think you’re doin’, you crazy--”

 

All canine-directed insults stop when Shaggy looks up at what it had been that the dog had been so desperate to get away from. In an instant, it feels like all the blood rushes to his heart, and he’s dizzy with terror.

 

Rising from the asphalt,  _ rising _ , like a diver walking across the seafloor up to shore, comes the glowing-green, spectral figure of a woman. A woman dressed like she’s come out of a Victorian portrait, with three black stab-wounds in her chest. She strides forward, eyes only orbs of unseeing viridian flame, and Shaggy stays frozen where he is on the suddenly freezing-cold sidewalk, and he clutches the shaking dog, squeezing his eyes shut, thinking  _ this is it, I’m toast _ , thinking  _ oh, god, I can’t die while Mom & Sugie still need me _ \-- and he feels a sudden tremendous chill, as though someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over him. When he opens his eyes, the spectre is gone.

 

All his wits rushing back to him, Shaggy scrambles to his feet and dashes inside his family’s restaurant, with the huge dog hot on his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully there'll be less of a wait for the next chapter, we'll be getting back onto the track of the movie this fic is loosely based around (remember, it's 'scooby doo: the mystery begins') - stay tuned! <3
> 
> chapter title from the song 'and then he kissed me', by the crystals.


	4. my eyes beheld an eerie sight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE WAIT!!! this chapter catches up to the events of 'the mystery begins' a bit more, and for a while we're going to be following that movie for major plot points, so give the film a watch if you haven't already! it's really a very sweet (if corny) version of scooby-doo.
> 
> lots of jumping around between perspective and time in this chapter, so i hope it's not too distracting, but i'm starting to introduce what i hope will be a nice conflict between these kids that can be resolved as we go along. enjoy!

If Velma Dinkley thought she'd missed out on sleep on Wednesday night, it's nothing compared to how many hours she loses the Thursday night. She pores over every book on ghostly folklore that she's got, that her mother's got, that she's found in their home library, any shelf, any corner of the attic. Well into the night, she scribbles on the how and the why in the notebook she got last Christmas that she  _ finally _ gets to use, her notes in both Japanese and English blending and blurring together -  _ I'm just going to close my eyes, just for a minute  _ \- and maybe two hours later she wakes up sprawled over her literature, the alarm for school blaring at her to  _ get up, get going!!! _

 

Scrambling to cram her notebooks into her bag, still laying open across her bedspread, Velma jumps to get herself ready.

 

For some reason, deep down and rising up from the earth, Velma feels like something is  _ different _ now.

 

\---

 

Thirteen hours earlier, Norville ‘Shaggy’ Rogers collapses onto the tiled floor of  _ Rogers’ Good Eats _ , his whole body shaking, a huge stray dog pressed to his side, much to the shock of the diner’s patrons and owner. Wasima hurries to her son’s side, but he’s breathing too hard to explain himself clearly, gasping only  _ ‘I saw-- I saw-- I saw--’ _ over and over again until someone thrusts a paper bag his way.

 

Sugie pokes her head you from behind her mother's hip. “Shaggy,” she says, curiously. “are you having a teenage meltdown?”

 

Wasima shushes and shoos her away, kneeling down and rubbing her son's back until he gets himself together. Shaggy lowers the paper bag from his face after another few moments of deep breathing, and the huge dog starts snuffling around it as Shaggy finally manages to form actual words.

 

“Like,  _ I think I just saw a ghost _ .”

 

\---

 

As Shaggy Rogers tries to calm himself down after making a scene at his mother's diner, halfway across town Fred Jones hurries to his bedroom and carefully places a small, faintly glowing scrap of what he assumes is some sort of fabric in a plastic sandwich bag for safekeeping. It's a bit less transparent than he'd really like, but the green haze around it, though dulled by cloudy plastic, is still evident enough.

 

Placing it on the desk in his room, Fred suddenly considers that the  _ reason _ for the verdant glow may be due to  _ radioactivity _ and he makes a point to slide his desk chair a fair way back, racking his brains on what to do when presented with something potentially radioactive. He wonders if the empty safe in the garage he'd rescued from a dumpster for his ever growing garage-opening Rube Goldberg machine would do as a protective shield. Flipping back through his mental database tells him there's probably nothing he's got in storage that would work any better, so twenty minutes later he's back in his room, this time with the safe in tow, and he carefully stashes it in there.

 

Then he sits back down at his desk and thinks hard, reaching for one of his sketchbooks and flipping it open to the next blank page.

 

What he draws is something different to anything he’s ever sketched before.

 

\---

 

Six and a half hours after Shaggy Rogers runs screaming into  _ Rogers’ Good Eats _ and Fred Jones puts the mysterious scrap of green fabric in a safe from his family garage, while Velma Dinkley is well underway with translating one of her mother's books on ghostly folk tales, Daphne Blake lies wide awake in the lilac satin sheets of her queen-sized bed. It's October, but she turned the fan on in her room half an hour ago because she feels hot, sweaty with terror and she can't  _ stand _ the silence of her room. In the quiet, every little creak or tiny sound from outside is magnified, and when she blinks she can see the terrifying ghostly figure on horseback from that afternoon.

 

So the fan is on, if only to drown out the million thoughts saying  _ something about the world is suddenly different _ swirling around her head.

 

If she's honest, it isn't really working.

 

\---

 

The next morning, Fred Jones gets on the school bus with his sketchbook in his bag and a sharp look pointed at every tree, scanning every low-hanging branch for a bigger sample of the strange substance he’d collected and locked away the night before. He sits down by the window and makes himself just this side of nauseous watching the scenery whizz by.

 

And Velma Dinkley gets on the school bus, with her notebooks full of half-translated folk tales and scribbled-upon maps, her glasses doing nothing to stop everything from looking just a little blurry. She sits down in her usual seat and takes a moment to close her eyes, just for a second--

 

\--when she opens them, someone sits down next to her. Which is odd, because it’s usually a couple more stops before Norville gets on the bus, and she’s about to turn to him and ask if she’d dozed off when she realises that it is not Norville that’s taken a seat next to her, but Daphne.

 

Daphne Blake, with her makeup not quite heavy enough to conceal the bone-tired look on her face, who wrings her hands together like a worried old woman and then cuts right to the chase.

 

“I know it’s totally groady of me to be taking the school bus but I told our driver I wouldn’t tell Daddy he’s been smoking again if he’d let me make my own way this morning.”

 

“Um,” Velma begins, but Daphne cuts across her.

 

“I had to talk to you as soon as possible,” she says, seriously. “That thing? Yesterday in the bathroom? I changed my mind. I wanna help you figure out what that was.”

 

Velma breathes out a slow, measured breath. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

Though it's difficult to compare the stress levels of each of the four teenage paranormal witnesses’ respective Thursday nights, if asked, Shaggy Rogers would put up a very good argument for  _ most traumatic experience _ overall.

 

At a quarter-to-five, he'd been collapsed right in the middle of  _ Roger's Good Eats’  _ dining area, half propped up by a large buff-brown dog that had whined and whimpered and absolutely refused to leave Shaggy's side.

 

Shaggy had inhaled and exhaled as you're always told to do into a paper bag given to him by Mr Shalhoub, and upon catching his breath had announced to the entire establishment that he'd just seen a ghost.

 

But more than that, he'd  _ touched one.  _ Or rather, he'd had one  _ walk straight through him _ . And as he'd sat there, shivering like he'd taken an ice bath, Wasima Rogers had suddenly and shortly announced to the restaurant's patrons that they'd be closing early, and she was very sorry, and  _ yes, Mister Khoury, you can take your tabbouleh with you, just bring the bowl back tomorrow _ , and only moments later, the place had emptied of everyone but the Rogers family, and this huge canine interloper that had rushed in with the eldest child.

 

Try as she might, nothing was budging that dog. Clearly a stray, Wasima had attempted to shoo it out when Shaggy had finally, shakily, gotten to his feet, but then Shaggy had swayed unsteadily and the dog had jumped up to buffer him, and Wasima had felt just a little bad for trying to force it away - so she'd conceded defeat and allowed the dog to support her son as the whole Rogers family unit shuffled themselves into the kitchen in the back.

 

“Did you really see a ghost?” Sugie had asked, breaking the awkward, growing silence.

 

Her mother glared, but her brother shuddered, and then he’d nodded. They’d all stood there in the kitchen, quiet and unsure, until Wasima’s motherly instincts had kicked in, and she’d begun to brew a pot of tea on autopilot. Sugie had helped, climbing up on a stool to grab one of the restaurant’s officially stamped mugs, the  _ Rogers’ Good Eats _ name printed across the side of the ceramic.

 

By the time the beverage has been brewed, poured, and placed into his hands, Shaggy’s stopped shaking - but even after he downs the piping hot beverage, (too quickly, it burns his tongue and the roof of his mouth on the way down,) he finds that it’s done next to nothing to drive the icy-cold feeling from his bones, and it persists, all through the night, even as he retires to bed without doing his English homework, with the stray dog curled up, half-awake at the foot of his bed all night - and it’s still there when morning rolls around and he’s barely snatched a moment of real sleep.

 

This morning, even the air feels different. Shaggy wonders if anyone else can feel it too.

 

When he shuffles into the kitchen for breakfast, still wearing two sweaters on top of each other, Shaggy’s mom advises that he doesn’t go into school, but he shakes his head and insists he’s fine, he’s  _ honestly _ fine, and he can’t afford to miss this test he’s got in chemistry, (even though he knows, in his heart, that he’s going to fail this one,) and  _ yes _ , he’ll get rid of the dog on his way out this morning.

 

“C’mon, buddy,” he says, not noticing what he’d called the large canine, “let’s get us both out of here.” Breakfast out of the way, he grabs his books and nudges the dog’s side with his knee and it whines but moves in the direction that it’s prompted, and together they head out into the street.

 

It’s a sunny morning with the leaves still halfway from green to orange, but even though Shaggy knows that it’s warm out, it  _ must _ be warm out, he still feels cold, cold all the way through. And even though his mother had chalked it up to the stress of schoolwork and impending tests, he has no doubt in his mind, none at all. He knows what had happened that night, and it had been  _ much _ more frightening than any horror flick he’d seen down at the picture-house.

 

“Okay, dog,” he says, pointing toward the opposite end of the street. “Like, get lost. The bus is on it’s way, and like I told you yesterday, it’s no place for pooches. So go on. Scram.”

 

The dog looks up at him, its big brown eyes all pleading and plaintive -  _ hey, who just helped you out last night, are you really just gonna kick me out like this? _ Shaggy gulps, swallowing back the big lump of guilt welling in his throat. “Didn’t you hear me?” he says, his voice coming out all strangled as the school bus pulls up to the curb. “Like,  _ amscray _ already.”

 

Then he steps on the bus and it begins to pull away, and Shaggy looks back at the dog as the doors close, wincing as it's imploring eyes follow him the whole way down the street, right up until the bus goes around the bend in the road and the dog ends up out of sight. Shaggy sighs, and starts to make his way down the bus. He gets to the third row back and only then realises that no-one's tried to trip him up, and when he looks to where Flash Granger usually sits, extended leg at the read, his bewildered eyes only meet first an empty aisle seat, and then meet the eyes of Fred Jones, who only shrugs before turning back to the window.

 

Shaggy can only shrugs, grateful at least for the reprieve from early morning hazing from the school quarterback, but when he reaches his usual fifth-row seat, he finds it already occupied by Daphne Blake, who has never once spoken to him. He's about to say something, but thinks better of it when Daphne stops speaking to Velma, (who's scribbling frantically in a notebook,) and fixes Shaggy with a withering look, as though  _ he's _ the one who's out of place here.

 

“Like, sorry,” Shaggy says, eyes darting around the bus for a spare seat. “Guess I'll just…”

 

Velma looks up then, and she gives him an apologetic look before Daphne speaks up -  _ okay, so maybe move before you fall over? _ \- and Shaggy scrambles to do so  _ just _ as the bus suddenly lurches in a particularly unsteadying sort of way.

 

So Shaggy backs up a bit, back toward the front of the bus, stops, and then coughs to clear his throat.

 

“Uh, is it okay if I sit there? Think everywhere else is full up.”

 

Fred turns his head suddenly, as though startled out of a particularly deep thought.

 

“Oh sure, go ahead.”

 

Shaggy nods and slides into the seat, and as he does so he can't help but notice the sketchbook laying open across Fred's knees. All across the double-page spread is what appears to be drawings of the same thing - a puff of bright smoke, or maybe a thin sort of fabric. The shades vary depending on what they've been coloured with - pens, pencils, maybe paints, and something about the colour only reminds Shaggy that he's not felt warm since last night. That  _ green _ \- not every sketch is exact, but all together, well, it's no wonder he's suddenly remembering last night's paranormal occurrence. And he's about to muster up the courage to try and make conversation, maybe  _ ask _ Fred about his sketches, just on that slim chance maybe one's got something to do with the other, when suddenly it seems that Fred notices Shaggy looking and suddenly snaps the sketchbook shut, hurriedly scrambling to hide it. Shaggy winces, wanting to apologise but finding the words get stuck in his throat, and so he ends up saying nothing, just sitting awkwardly next to the same guy that usually sits by and does nothing to stop Shaggy getting tripped up by his sports buddy.

 

The bus ride passes in relative silence, and they're just pulling away from the last stop-light before they reach Coolsville High when both teenage boys notice a muffled barking coming from the street outside.

 

“Like, what's goin’ on?” Shaggy asks, craning his neck to try and see past Fred's head. “Is it like a runaway or somethin'?”

 

“I'm not sure,” says Fred, pressing himself up to the glass. “Doesn't look like it has a collar or anything.”

 

Shaggy nods, leaning back. “Maybe it's just a stray causing trouble. You know, there's a stray that keeps showing up at my mom's restaura--”

 

He stops himself when the dog suddenly comes into view, barking up an absolute storm and jumping up, front paws thumping on the side of the bus like it's trying to stop the vehicle. Shaggy's eyes go wide with panic as he recognises it - it's  _ his _ stray.

 

And more than that, there’s something out there  _ with _ his stray, something distinctly glowing and green and ghostly, rapidly gaining on the heels of the dog. Fred turns and he and Shaggy exchange a flabbergasted,  _ are-you-seeing-that-too _ kind of look that lasts only a moment before another bark from the dog makes Shaggy jump in his seat.

 

“Like, no  _ way _ ,” he whispers, shakily rising to his feet. “Get outta here,” he says, a little louder. “Hey,” he says, voice climbing, now banging on the window with both fists. “ _ Hey _ , you gotta get out of here!”

 

In front of them, the bus driver shouts something about sitting down and shutting up - Fred jumps in, grabbing Shaggy's wrists and trying to push him back into his seat. 

 

“Hey, cool off buddy, it's just a stray dog!” he says, but Shaggy squirms, trying to worm his way out of Fred's grip.

 

“No, no way man, that's not just a stray, he's my friend,” Shaggy says, frantic, watching as the dog darts and squeezes between cars, still barking and bumping the side the bus. “I can't let 'im just get turned into roadkill, I gotta stop this bus.”

 

Shaggy pulls himself out of Fred's grip and makes for the front of the bus, headed for the driver, intent on pulling the brakes himself if he has to. The driver shouts at him to sit back down, and Shaggy disregards him entirely, and only stops when he's suddenly football-tackled from behind, and both Shaggy  _ and  _ Fred go sprawling, fists, knees, and elbows flying as they grapple each other on the floor of the bus, the dog still barking away somewhere on the road outside.

 

Three rows back, Velma Dinkley jumps up from her seat, who, like Daphne Blake next to her, has also seen the spectral shape rising up out of the asphalt and forward after the large stray dog bobbing and weaving through school-ward traffic, and, like everyone else on the bus, is witness to Norville Rogers and Fred Jones brawling in the bus aisle, and for whatever ridiculous, absurd reason, she feels the need to join in, shoving Daphne’s knees aside and half-falling out into the aisle herself, hardly hearing the angry prima-donna’s outrage at being shoved aside for the blood rushing in her ears.

 

After all, how many times has she watched the members of the football team knock Norville onto his face before and sat by doing nothing? There’s something wildly,  _ crazily _ off about the world this morning, nevermind the dog and the ghoul or anything, why shouldn’t she throw herself into a fight for the sake of her sort-of-friend? She reaches for Fred Jones’ shoulders and pulls back hard, and before she knows it she’s elbowed  _ hard _ in the side by a cashmere-clad arm that can only belong to Daphne, and everything’s a blur for the further minute-and-a-half it takes before the bus comes screeching to a halt. The next thing she or any of the other three teens involved with the brawl know, the bus doors swing open and the truly livid, beet-red face of Vice Principal Grimes storms in like an over-inflated balloon, his jacket straining around his got and the vein in his forehead straining not to pop with fury.

 

Velma stands up first, and when she looks out the window she sees the dog from outside running away, but the green ghost is nowhere to be seen.

 

_ Who started this? _ shrieks the Vice Principal, and in the sudden pin-drop silence of the school bus, all eyes and all hands point to the four of them, to Velma, Daphne, Fred, Norville.

 

“Come with me,” says Vice Principal Grimes, affecting an air of almost-calm that fails to seem genuine considering the shade of crimson his face is. “ _ Now!” _ he hollers, when all four fail to move.

  
The other three struggle to their feet and shuffle, pale-faced, off the bus, Grimes breathing hard through his nose and down their necks as they pass him. He motions, silently furious, for them to follow him, and Velma’s heart drops like a  _ stone _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the lyrics of the classic song 'the monster mash.'
> 
> thank you for reading! let me know what you think, and you can find me on tumblr at politelyintheknow (or at politelyscribblingaway for art!)


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